


"Screw It" Is Key When Making Important Decisions

by byrd_the_amazin



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Getting Back Together, M/M, Spot finds letters written to him by Race, and for my friend's birthday, here enjoy, this is because of a tumblr prompt, this is the cheesiest thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byrd_the_amazin/pseuds/byrd_the_amazin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“i found your box of letters underneath my bed last night and because i’m a nosy motherfucker i decided to read them and it turns out they were all addressed to me and the last one was dated the day you moved out and i’m not quite sure why i thought this would be a good idea but here i am, standing on your doorstep, wondering why the fuck we’re not together anymore" sprace</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Screw It" Is Key When Making Important Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> here it is
> 
> as requested by the lovely Bel, whose birthday was yesterday!!! happy birthday amazing person!!!
> 
> this thing is even longer than betting aces
> 
> cripes
> 
> sorry guys
> 
> sorry i made the title so long again except i'm not really sorry
> 
> "screw it" is kind of my mindset for everything, tbh
> 
> but here enjoy
> 
> here goes nothing 
> 
> -byrd

~

It had been two years.

Spot was _fine._

He had more or less moved on. Everything in the apartment was his own- he’d taken all of his ex’s old stuff and donated it. Or tossed it out. No trace of their relationship lingered. _Almost_ no evidence of their messy breakup that led to his ex’s leaving remained- save for the tiny scar on the back of Spot’s hand from the glass that had been thrown across the room.

 _The room._ Spot mostly avoided the dining room now, as it was where the majority of the fight had happened. He also didn’t use those cups anymore. There were too many bad memories associated with them, so they were for “special occasions.” Besides, he had other cups he could use- plastic ones. They were easier to clean, anyways.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

_Sure._

But he truly thought he’d erased any clue that there was ever another person living here- until he found the box under his bed.

 _His bed._ It had used to be _their bed,_ with many mornings spent waking up beside who he had _thought_ was the love of his life, watching him sleep, noting the way the sun hit his face and made him look even more angelic. Many nights were spent together, enjoying each other’s warmth, listening to the other breathing and feeling _so happy_ that they were there, in each other’s arms.

Spot shook his head.

He had moved on.

He was _fine._

The box was an old shoebox, with a brand on the side that Spot didn’t remember ever buying. It must have been _his._

A thin piece of weathered tape held the lid of the box on, and in messy handwriting on the top was one word. The name that had single-handedly made Spot’s life and then destroyed it.

_Tony._

Spot wanted to throw the box back under the bed. He wanted to get it out of his life and in doing so pretend he was getting _him_ out of his life.

_Tony._

Memories resurfaced- of a sly grin attached to shining eyes, of dark hair that was soft to the touch, of laughter that made Spot feel as though there was nothing wrong with the world. Of a slight accent, caused by an Italian bloodline and made stronger when he was angry or emotional, and small words uttered in his family’s native language- curses or small exclamations when pleased or surprised.

Spot closed his eyes tight, willing the images to go away, and when they finally vanished, no doubt to arise again at the worst time, he opened his eyes and examined the box.

He’d never seen it before, which probably meant that it had been intentionally kept from him. Something twisted painfully in his stomach. _Yet one more secret kept from me._

The old piece of tape broke off easily, and Spot opened the box as though unearthing a priceless treasure. This was it- the last piece of the life he’d lived two years ago, and by opening it, he was ridding himself of the mystery.

Upon opening the shoebox he found it stuffed with envelopes, stacked vertically as though in a filing cabinet. There were at least a hundred, maybe more.

And Spot’s curiosity was peaked. _What were they for?_

He picked the one in the back out first, because it was the oldest-looking, and took it out to examine it.

It was addressed -to him- in messy handwriting he would know anywhere.

But it didn’t say _Spot._ It said _Sean._

Spot could feel his breath hitch, because _Sean_ was for special occasions. _Sean_ was for serious discussions. _Sean_ was for “we need to talk.”

Every nerve in his body screamed at him to shove the letter back into the box and throw the box back under the bed. He had no doubt that he wouldn’t like whatever he found in the letter. If it was a good thing, he wouldn’t _just_ be finding these now.

Still, it _was_ for him. And he knew that if he _didn’t_ open it, it would become a forever _what if._

Well… he couldn’t have _that._

So, perhaps against his better judgement, he ran a finger under the seal of the envelope. Took out the letter inside. And began to read.

_Spot-_

_Where to begin?_

_This is going to sound terribly corny. You’ll most likely tease for it. But I’ve got to say it somewhere, or I’ll lose my mind._

_Sean Conlon, I think I might be in love with you._

Spot paused there, heart racing, and checked the date on the top of the letter. It was dated back several years ago. _Nearly nine years ago._

Which would have been…

_Ninth grade?_

That couldn’t be right. Spot squinted the date, thinking that maybe it was a misprint, or maybe he wasn’t reading it correctly.

They’d _met_ in ninth grade, when Spot had been staking out his usual seat in detention and a temperamental little shit had marched into the room in a flurry of anger and sass, cursing his teacher’s name and the stupid rules that had gotten him sent here. By the time he had stopped talking, Spot had realized the advantage to befriending such a firecracker of a person. They’d talked for the rest of their sentence in detention, and a friendship had been struck up.

From then on, they’d become inseparable- the Terror of the Freshman Class and his sidekick, who could destroy someone with his words almost as fast as Spot could with his fists.

They hadn't become a couple until college.

_Ninth grade?_

Mind racing, Spot continued reading.

_I think I just realized it today, too. Some homophobe was talking shit about Mush and you did what you always do- you beat some sense into him. Like always. And then walked away. Like always._

_But then you went over to Mush. You asked him if he was alright and…_

_I don’t know. Maybe I’m just crazy. But your voice goes all soft when you’re talking to someone you obviously care about and I think that that’s awesome._

_You aren’t such a stone-cold badass that you don’t care who you’re fighting_ for.

Spot didn’t realize he was trembling until he couldn’t read it anymore, the paper shaking so much the words blurred together. He took a deep breath.

 _Get a freaking grip. It’s been two years,_ he told himself. _You’re fine._

He didn’t remember the fight that was mentioned- then again, he had gotten in quite a number of fights in his freshman year. He did remember how many of said fights had been him defending Mush, however, who was purposefully outed by some assholes at the beginning of eighth grade and was bullied all throughout that year and the next for it. He remembered how when _two_ of them stood behind Mush, it was so much easier. How when the two of them worked together, the jerks went away a lot faster.

 _That’s how we worked,_ he thought _. Together._

He read on.

_So maybe it’s a sudden realization. Maybe it’s just a crush._

_Hopefully._

_Because I don’t know if I expected fireworks, or love confessions, or what, but you’re still treating me normally, which is to say, like shit._

_And I’m not complaining. I act the exact same way towards you. Any other way would feel wrong. This is it. This is us._

_Aaaand I’m rambling._

_It’s ok. I’ve already decided I’m not going to show you this, because it’s cheesy as hell and you would tease me endlessly for it._

_Maybe I’ll burn this. And act like I’m burning these stupid_ feelings _along with it. I’m rambling again._

Spot caught himself grinning and killed the smile instantly. It was a _letter,_ for heaven’s sake, from nine years ago, back when there had been no fight, no breakup. Back when they weren’t even together yet.

Things were different now. This probably didn’t even apply anymore.

_But, yeah. On the off-chance that I don’t burn this and you do end up finding it, I’ve moved to Siberia. And I don’t speak English._

_What the hell am I even doing_

_Your friend,_

_Race_

Race.

_Race._

And something stirred inside his gut at the use of his ex’s nickname that they’d come up with in their friend group. Around the same time that Michael became Mush and Sean had become Spot (not by choice, that was for sure), Tony had been given a nickname, too, and from then on he was Race, to everyone except his family and teachers, even into college.

It wasn’t surprising that he’d signed the letter _Race._ Tony, like Sean, was for special occasions. Serious business. Or when they were fighting and they wanted to piss the other one off.

Spot set the letter aside, delicately, as though it would crumble in his hands, and reached for the next one, which was dated half a year later.

_Spot-_

_I didn’t burn the thing. Couldn’t bring myself to, because I may be acting like a goddamn teenage girl, but_

_Everything I said before is true._

_I’m_ definitely _in love with you now. As if I wasn’t before._

_Now it’s worse._

_So much worse._

_Stop being so goddamn hot. And funny. And likable._

_For my sake._

_You can do that, right?_

_Race_

The next letter, dated a month later, wasn’t addressed or signed.

_You bloody traitor. It’s even worse now. I hope you’re happy, bastard._

Spot grinned at that and reached for the next one, which was, for the most part, along the same lines as the first letter. Then he found himself reaching for the next letter. After that, he opened and read the next. And the next.

He read every letter Race had written him, all of them throughout high school, all of them some sort of complaint, or otherwise taking notice of Spot and everything he did, from the way he ran his hands through his hair when he got frustrated to the way his knuckles clenched up when he was about to hit someone or something. Spot learned more about himself from these letters than he’d ever known before, at least from an outside perspective. It was interesting to see what he looked like through someone else’s eyes.

Then he hit the college letters, and suddenly they took a dangerous turn. Spot and Race had been roommates, and this had brought on a _whole_ new level of… well, if Race hadn't been his best friend at the time, it may have been considered stalkerish and weird.

Everything from his sleeping habits (which had a range of twenty minutes to twelve hours and was usually only as a result of a caffeine crash; Spot hated sleeping) to the classes they were in together (Creative Writing and English Lit, although in his letters Race admitted to only joining the first one because he knew Spot would be in his class) was mentioned, and Spot found himself reliving his college days. He got through the first year of college letters, with the pining on Race’s end becoming close to unbearable, until finally, after the second letter of their sophomore year of college, Race mentioned The Thing.

The Thing.

Neither of them had been very aware of it as it happened; they had both been drunk and too caught up in the elation and festivities of the party they were at to notice much of anything anymore. Race had drunkenly thrown himself over Spot in his chair, and Spot had thought that the most sensible thing to do would be to flop sideways over him so that they were tangled together.

Their faces had gotten too close and the inevitable had happened; they’d kissed.

And as it happened, Spot realized just how much he _wanted this,_ how much he liked his friend and wanted to be able to do this _all the time_ , and so in a drunken haze, he’d dragged Race out of their chair, slammed him against a wall, and proceeded to live up to his nickname by kissing him senseless and putting dark hickeys – _spots_ \- all over Race’s neck.

That was as far as they’d gotten before Race had pulled away, in a panic, and fled.

Spot and Race had avoided each other for days afterwards, being sure to come into and leave their room at different times, messing up their sleep schedules just to avoid the other person, and when they finally talked after their friend Katherine had intervened and threatened murder on the two of them, Race acted like it had never happened.

The spots hadn't yet faded from his neck. Spot couldn’t help but sneak glances at them as they talked and tried not to think about the fact that that would be the first and last time he would ever be the one to put them there.

In his letter, Race explained The Thing in great detail, as was expected, but even as Spot read the story that he was already familiar with, something was different.

Race didn’t sound furious in his letter, or even slightly mad.

He just sounded… sad.

 _Why don’t you want to talk about it?_ he asked, towards the end of the letter. _I must be a terrible kisser._

_Or you just hate me._

_Maybe you just hate me._

And even though Spot knew that the letter had been written a few years ago, by his _ex,_ no less, he found himself feeling bad for him. Spot hadn't _hated_ him. In fact, that kiss was when Spot had realized just how much he _didn’t_ hate it. How much he _liked it._

How much he _loved_ it.

_So if you never speak to me again, I’ll either burn this box of shit or send it to you._

_And then move to Italy and change my name._

_I hope it doesn’t come to that._

_I love you, you stupid idiot. And if I’m never allowed to kiss you again, at least let us be friends again._

Race hadn't signed that one.

_Spot-_

_I screwed up. I screwed up so much._

_Today I did it. I sucked it the hell up and told you how I felt about you._

_Actually, it kind of popped out. I don’t know how. We were both angry, and you were yelling about how I must hate you, and I was yelling the exact same thing, and then we stopped for a second because_ no way _you_ thought that too _and then I sort of cried that I loved you._

_What the hell am I doing now, you may ask?_

_I’m hiding. In the bathroom. With my back against the door because the door’s lock is shit._

_I confessed my crush of at least three years to you and fled the scene._

_Freaking typical._

_You’re knocking on the door. You want to talk to me?_

_I don’t care. I don’t freaking care._

_I’m never opening this door again. Go to Jack’s place to pee._

_That way I won’t have the opportunity to embarrass myself further._

Spot set the letter down because he remembered that fight vividly.

Spot’s anger at Race ignoring him had finally reached a boiling point, and he had screamed some things about how Race must absolutely _hate_ him, since he obviously didn’t want to be around him anymore, and Race had retorted the same thing right back, yelling about how distant Spot had been lately and how Race wasn’t the _only_ culprit around here.

Spot had said something like, “Well if you hate me so much, why do you even try? Why don’t you just _leave?_ ”

He hadn't meant it, and almost as soon as he’d said it, he wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and die. Maybe now Race would really leave, and Spot would never see his friend again.

Instead of storming out, however, Race had said, in a broken voice that Spot still heard on repeat to this day, “ _I don’t hate you, you stupid son of a bitch. I’ve been in love with you since I met you._ ”

_I don’t hate you._

_I’ve been in love with you since I met you._

Then Race had turned and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind him and (apparently, according to the letter,) pressing his back against the door. Spot had tried to get in, to no avail, desperate to talk about what had just happened because _dammit Race I am not throwing away my chance to make this work open the freaking door._

Three hours had passed. Spot had taken up residence on their old couch, watching the bathroom door like a hawk, wondering what the hell his roommate was _doing_ , and what he was supposed to do when he actually had to go to the bathroom.

Finally, Race had emerged, pocketing a piece of paper that Spot now understood was this very letter, and had quietly asked if Spot wanted to talk.

They had talked.

A mutual understanding was gathered and it was realized that they did _not,_ in fact, hate each other and they _did_ actually like each other very much.

Then Race had stepped forward, and Spot hadn't objected.

They had kissed, and it was amazing, _so_ much better than the drunken makeout at the party. Spot had never wanted it to end, ever.

And thus had become the transition into their relationship, which lasted through the rest of college.

Right up until the end of their senior year—

And Spot didn’t want to think about that. Not now. No sense in dredging up bad memories now.

The rest of the letter was Race’s freakout while he had been locked in the bathroom. He’d had three hours to vent, and the result was the entire rest of the page and onto the back, all a panicked, hurrying scrawl  about how much he wanted this, but Spot couldn’t, of course he couldn’t, because Spot was oblivious.

“I take offense to that,” Spot murmured.

The letter didn’t respond.

Then it occurred to him that he was addressing a piece of paper, written years ago.

He shook his head and moved on to the next one.

This one had been written the next night, after Race had finally come out of the bathroom and they had worked shit out, and the handwriting was so messy Spot had to reread it several times to get the full message, but this time, the chicken scratch wasn’t caused by panic- it was caused by elation.

 _Are we going to be able to make this work?_ Race asked towards the end of the letter. _Or are you going to break my heart, Sean Conlon?_

He was nearing the end of the letters; now they were fewer and further spread out over time. One was Race’s birthday junior year, when they hadn't done anything big or extravagant, just had a few friends over, and in his own, asshole-ish way, Race’s letter was sweet and sentimental, saying that he didn’t mind the not going all out this year. That he appreciated Spot regardless.

Another letter was during finals week, and Race’s writing, much like both of their attitudes that week, looked like it was giving up on life, slanting and not following the lines of the paper, so bad in some places that Spot had to guess what it said.

And the third-to-last letter was perhaps Spot’s least favorite.

It was the month before they were let out for summer in their junior year, and Spot had been at a low point. He’d failed an exam and would have to retake the class, which affected his average and meant he couldn’t advance like he’d been planning.

Not to mention that his father had called. His father _never_ called. Spot’s phone had rung at three in the morning, waking Spot up, and then that _asshole_ had proceeded to yell at Spot over the phone about how useless he was, that he’d gotten word of Spot’s failure (how, Spot would never know, he himself would shoot himself in the hand before he gave _that_ shithead any information about his life at school,) and how Spot was a disappointment and, frankly, he should be _ashamed._ His father certainly was.

Spot had decided he’d had enough, what with the flunk and his father’s words, not to mention Race hadn't been speaking to him lately, as they were going through one of their almost weekly arguments that had always gotten resolved in the past but now he was less than optimistic.

He wrote Race a note and drove to the nearest shithole of a bar, sincerely hoping to drink himself to death.

Only it hadn't quite worked like that, because argument or no argument, Race was a goddamn good person and found him at one am, dragging his stupid ass to the hospital so he could have his stomach pumped. He was warned by the doctor that he had come dangerously close to doing irreparable damage, and when that didn’t make any impact on him, the doctor gravely pronounced that he could have _died._

 _Good,_ Spot had thought to himself. _That’s what I was going for._

He’d stayed overnight, and when he returned home the following day, Race had sat him down and had a serious discussion with him, asking him questions he didn’t want to answer but he did anyways, not wanting to make Race even madder than he was.

“Screw the _alcohol_ killing you,” Race had snapped, fire in his words and his eyes. “If you so much as _try_ any stupid shit like that again, _I_ will kill you.”

Spot had reluctantly agreed, if only to make Race happy, and whatever fight they had had before was resolved by default, as this was the more pressing issue.

The letter he held in his hand now, Race must have written at the hospital, sitting by his bedside, and it was shaky and freckled with small water drop stains here and there, as though Race had been crying.

Impossible.

Race had never cried, not once in the nine years Spot had known him.

_~~Spot~~ You bloody idiot-_

_Why the hell would you do this, you stupid, stupid boy?_

_I heard your talk with your father. We share a bed and you’re freaking loud when you get angry. So that wasn’t a surprise. I knew you were angry, and even without overhearing the phone call, the next morning you were as tense as a coiled spring. Something was clearly wrong._

_I figured you’d want to talk about it. Usually we tell each other everything._

_But we’re fighting. About what, who knows._

_This is all my fault. I noticed you were upset and didn’t do anything about it, and if you die it’ll be on me. All me._

_I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me._

_I’ll never fight with you again if you make it through._

_When you make it through._

_Screw this._

_I don’t even know anymore._

_I love you_

Spot shakily refolded the letter and drew in a deep, rattling breath. If he was the sort of person to cry, there would have been tears in his eyes. Instead, he looked, shell-shocked, at the words once more, rereading them again and again.

_I love you._

_I’m sorry._

_Please don’t leave me._

Fat lot of good that did him now, with Race gone from his life for two years.

And suddenly he was frantically opening the second-to-last letter, desperate to know what it contained, whether it held the secrets of their breakup, the reasoning, the story behind Race suddenly hating him.

_Spot-_

_Something’s not right._

_You aren’t yourself. I try to tell myself every day that you aren’t like that anymore, that you won’t try to run away and drink yourself to death anymore._

_My self-reassurances aren’t helping. I feel as shitty as ever, looking at you and your sleepless self. The truth?_

_I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust the doctors. Sometimes I don’t even trust our friends._

_All I can do is trust in you now, and hope you won’t leave me for good this time._

_But you’re acting odd, and it’s making me nervous._

_I’m terrified, Sean._

_We talk every night. It’s what the doctor recommended, so that we stay on top of things with each other, so that it doesn’t come out of the blue again like it did that night._

_But you’re contributing less and less to the conversation each night. I can see it in your eyes- the hopelessness._

_And what you don’t understand is how much I would suffer if you left. How empty my world would be without you in it. You don’t even realize how much of an impact this has had on me, how much_ you’ve _had an impact on me._

_My life was changed that day I stomped into detention, pissed as hell and ready to kill someone, and instead I met you._

_My life took a turn for the better that night when we kissed, for the second time, technically, but to me it felt like the first, and you became mine._

_Please don’t leave me again. I couldn’t live with myself anymore._

_Is it me? Have I done something wrong?_

_Why don’t you talk to me anymore?_

_I love you, and you’re not allowed to leave me. Not ever again._

_Race_

Spot blinked away the tears that threatened to spring forth. He didn’t cry. Not ever. Especially not now.

He and Race were _finished. Over._ For two years now.

He was _fine._

Abso- _freaking_ -lutely _fine._

He didn’t want to open the last letter. He was scared shitless of what he would find, how much it would affect him from now until maybe the end of time.

This letter was it. The last one Race had written to him. Before the breakup?  After it?

 _During_ it?

Even as he came to the conclusion that he should definitely _not_ open and read this potentially life-changing letter, his traitorous hands slid open the envelope and took out the paper.

This one was, as the others, full of the handwriting Spot had come to know twice now, once before in school and at college and when he had shared a life with this guy, and once more now, reading through his letters for –he checked the clock- a few hours now.

Damn, he was pathetic, getting all sentimental over his ex’s _handwriting._

He’d never suffered this much with any other breakup, ever.

Then again, no one else had ever been quite like Race. Best friends-turned-boyfriends who had a much stronger bond than any other couple, the breakup had hit them _hard._

At least, it had hit Spot hard. Who knew how Race felt.

All Spot knew was that he had lost his boyfriend and his best friend all in a matter of moments, that fateful night when they had fought and screamed and yelled and thrown dishes and finally, finally, Spot had snapped. Hand bleeding from a wound that had needed stitches later, voice hoarse, he’d snapped out that maybe Race had just _better effing leave,_ before everything else in their lives went to shit.

It hadn't taken Race long to pack.

Which meant… he’d been _expecting it?_

Or perhaps he’d been about ready to call it off himself.

Spot didn’t know, and he didn’t want to think about it.

Which probably meant that reading this letter would be one of the worst mistakes he’d made in a long time.

_Screw it._

He read the entire thing.

_Il mio amore- Spot-_

_If you’re reading this, it must mean you’ve found the box._

_So I didn’t burn it after all._

_Freaking sue me._

_If you’re reading this…_

_I hate to say it and sound like an awful cliché, but if you’re reading this, it means the worst has happened._

_You’ve either gone through my things, which is the worst because I will find and slaughter you (all these letters are sealed with_ glue, _bitch. Don’t think you can sneak a read), or_

_Or we aren’t together anymore, and I’ve left the box for you to find._

_In which case…_

_I love you._

_I really do._

_Because I cannot imagine, in any alternate universe, under any drastic measures, a world in which I stop loving you, Sean Conlon._

Spot wasn’t crying. He was _fine._ Just effing _peachy._

_And if we haven’t broken up, and we’re still together and you’ve just found this under my bed, then look out. I’m freaking coming for you, Conlon._

_But if we are finished…_

_I’m sorry._

_As I write this, you’re out with Jack and Blink, and by default Mush, partying? I think? I know for a fact you aren’t studying, as you claim._

_We’ve been growing apart._

_I hate to say it, but it’s true._

_I love you as much as I did the first day I realized it, but I get the strangest feeling you don’t feel the same._

_Did I do something wrong?_

_I’m sorry._

_I didn’t mean to._

_Is this because of that night when you got dangerously, insanely drunk? Because since the hospital, you haven’t been the same. Quieter, more reserved. You know that you used to tell me everything? Now I don’t even know where you are. Or where we stand._

_Are you going to break up with me?_

_There’s tension in the air; we can both feel it._

_Something’s going to happen, I just know it. Whether it’s a fight or a resolution of our differences (yeah goddamn right. That’s a joke) or a breakup._

_If you’re reading this, it was probably the last one._

_We were always destined to have some bumps and shit in our relationship._

_I don’t like it, but it’s true. We will probably not stay together forever._

_But I want you to know something._

_I still love you._

_No matter what._

_No matter how this thing, this glorious, amazing, life-changing, aggravating, heart-wrenching thing ends._

_I feel like I’ve been a terrible boyfriend, and I am sorry._

_It’s probably my fault we’re so distant now. Shit._

_I just… don’t know how to do this. You’re only my third boyfriend, did you know that? I’m not experienced like you are in this field._

_Am I mucking it all up?_

_I’m rambling again._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m just…_

_Damn, I’m so confused._

_Your (very bewildered and slightly aggravated, but always loving) boyfriend_

_Tony_

“Goddammit,” Spot said aloud. “God _dammit._ ”

Because this letter had proved something to him, something he never would have guessed in a million years.

_Race still loved him._

Ironic, considering Race had been all for the idea of leaving, even taking the precaution of packing his bags so that he didn’t need to remain in Spot’s presence any more than he had to.

But now Spot was thinking hard, back to the very thing he’d tried so hard to avoid thinking about for two years now. He thought back to that night, that fateful night that Race had walked out.

And suddenly he could vividly remember the hurt look on Race’s face, the puzzled expression when Spot had begun yelling, before his features had hardened and he had yelled right back.

_I don’t like it, but it’s true._

Race had seen this coming from miles away, no matter how much he hated it.

_I still love you._

_Because I cannot imagine, in any alternate universe, under any drastic measures, a world in which I stop loving you, Sean Conlon._

Race had always been better with his words.

Spot looked over at the stack of letters he’d just spent hours reading, the discarded envelopes that all bore his own name in messy handwriting.

Then he looked back into the box, hopelessly searching for any more letters. He wanted to know what came next. Race couldn’t just stop there. _What happened next?_

Only Spot knew what happened next.

He had _lived_ it, seen the heartbreak in his ex’s eyes, watched as the greatest thing to ever happen to him walked out his door, waited for him to come back.

He hadn't come back.

There were no more letters, but there was a tiny slip of paper, tucked in the bottom corner of the box, and Spot would have denied until his dying day the hurried, frantic way he dove for the paper, desperate for anything else from Race.

The paper only had a few words on it, written in Race’s handwriting, and had more creases than Spot could count, as though Race had obsessively folded the thing over and over again before sticking it in here.

_Spot. Sean. Whatever._

_You just sent me up here to pack. We’re fighting, and I’m not sure we’ll be able to resolve this one, man._

_Do you mean it?_

_Do you really want me gone?_

_If so, let me go. I’ll never truly get over you, but I can try. And I can pretend._

_I’m good at it._

_But if you don’t mean this, let me know. The address below is where I’m staying- it’s an old place my dad still (unknowingly) pays for that I usually vanish to when there’s a problem here._

_If you want me back, come get me. I’m not going anywhere._

_If not…_

_Well, I’ll find out soon enough, won’t I?_

_I love you regardless._

_Don’t leave me. Not again._

_~~Love~~ _

_~~Sincerely~~ _

_~~Race~~ _

_Tony_

“No,” Spot murmured, looking at the paper in disbelief. The paper that Race had written him _two years ago,_ that he was _just now_ finding. _This wasn’t fair!_ He hadn't known it was there. If he had, he most certainly would have-

Would have _what?_

Taken Race back?

Even as the thought occurred to him, he knew it was true. _So_ true. Had he known that Race had left his address, along with a confession that he still loved Spot, _in Spot’s apartment,_ Spot would have run all the way to him? He would have begged – _pleaded,_ something Spot _never_ did- for Race to come back.

To come _home._

But Spot hadn't seen the paper, not for two years, and now Race could have moved away, moved on, gotten a new boyfriend, _kept on living._ Something Spot hadn't done.

Race may have been physically gone from the apartment, but for the past two years, he’d remained in Spot’s mind as clearly as if he were right there.

Which was pathetic, Spot thought. He should have gotten over it. Gotten over _him._

Except that Spot couldn’t just _get over Race._ His best friend. The greatest boyfriend he’d ever had.

Race hadn't heard from him in two years.

_He probably thought Spot hated him._

“No,” Spot whispered. “No, no, you _stupid_ boy _why_?”

In Spot’s defense, Race hadn't left the address anywhere that Spot would easily find it.

Then again, Spot had never been one for “easy.” Race knew that. _Race would have made it hard on purpose. If Race was truly worth it to Spot, then Spot would have had to work to get him back._

Spot leapt up, sending the paper flying to the floor. Then, on impulse, he scooped both it and Race’s final letter up again and shoved them into his pocket. All rational thought had left his mind. The only clear message his brain was sending his body was: _We have to get to Race. We have to go see Race. We have to apologize to Race. Race. Race._

He stopped at the door to his apartment, jacket half-on with no memory of even picking it up, repeating the address to himself to make sure he didn’t forget it.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ he wondered, before deciding, as he tended to do in most life-altering situations, _Screw it,_ and making his way out the door.

Once he made it outside, the chilly air hit his exposed skin, and he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He vaguely knew where the apartment building Race had written was- he’d been there a few times when Blink had had a place there, back when he was still living off of support from his rich parents. Back before he’d come out, and as a result had been disowned.

Spot shook his head, trying to push away the memories. He had a mission.

Now if he only remembered which way to go.

~

His hand hovered over the door, poised to knock.

_What the hell am I doing?_

Race could laugh at him and shut the door. Race could ignore the knocking. Race could slam the door when he figured out who it was that had come to visit.

That was, assuming Race still lived here. Two years was a long time, after all, and once Race had decided Spot wasn’t coming, he very well could have packed up and moved out. No reason to stay here. Not when there were so many memories associated with this city, the restaurants where they’d gone on dates, the city skyline they’d admired so many times, walking hand-in-hand down the street after dark, the bustle of the crowds and honking horns that they woke up to together every morning.

New York was full of bittersweet memories.

Spot wouldn’t be surprised if Race really _had_ moved to Italy.

He dropped his hand to his side. _Go home,_ something inside him whispered. _Go home now. Save yourself the embarrassment._

Instead of listening (he had always been the impulsive type, after all), he raised his hand once more and knocked.

_Maybe no one’s home. Maybe no one’s been home in two years._

Something inside the apartment smashed, and someone swore loudly.

_In Italian._

Spot barely had time to register that, _shit,_ he recognized that voice, screaming his signature swear word, and _shit,_ this meant that Race was inside, his _ex_ of _two years_ was _through this door,_ and _shit shit shit,_ when said door swung open.

For a moment, Spot just stared at the person in front of him, at a complete loss for words, as the person stared right back, looking like he wasn’t sure whether Spot was real or not.

Race hadn't changed much.

He still had the same eternally messy dark hair, same scowl on his face like he was constantly deeply offended, same eyes with that dangerous glint in them.

He was, Spot was not at all sorry to say, still annoyingly attractive.

Race was wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt, and that gorgeously messy hair was now even more so, like he’d just gotten out of bed. Spot thought that it was quite late in the afternoon to be waking up, but then again, Race had never been an early riser. It was one of the many topics of argument between them- Spot got up with the sun. Race only occasionally got up before ten am, and only when Spot pleaded. Or bribed him.

For a very long moment, they just stared at each other. Spot was sure he had some sort of ridiculous expression on his own face, but Race’s poker face had always been amazing, so he had absolutely no idea what was going on inside his ex’s head.

Finally, he coughed and shuffled awkwardly on his feet and said, “Hi.”

Race’s eyes flashed dangerously and all of a sudden Spot could tell _exactly_ what he was thinking.

“ _Hi?”_ he hissed. “ _That’s_ what you say to me? _Hi?_ ”

Spot looked at the ground, then at the ceiling. Anywhere but Race’s eyes. “Yes?”

“I have half a mind to slam the door in your face,” snarled Race, “but I think I rather enjoy you standing here making an idiot of yourself. What the _freaking hell_ do you want, ass?”

Spot took a deep breath. “I- um.”

“Yes?”

“I found your-your things. Your letters. That you wrote for me.”

Race just looked at him and _shit_ this was not how Spot had intended this to work.

Although… he wasn’t quite sure _how_ exactly he had intended this to work.

Had he thought, perhaps, that Race would welcome him in with open arms? Forgive him easily? Forget that their whole messy breakup had happened and laugh it off?

Spot knew better. This was _Race,_ sidekick to the Terror of the Freshman Class and all-around asshole. He was stubborn, and held grudges better than anyone Spot knew. He could remember things like nobody else, which came in handy when he wanted to roast people, or dig up dirt on them from years ago.

Which was among the many reasons Spot had fallen in love with him.

But it wouldn’t benefit Spot _now,_ when he was trying to apologize for being an absolute piece of shit.

As Race continued to glare at him, Spot decided he had better elaborate.

“Your letters,” he said. “The ones you-”

“I know what letters,” Race snapped. “I _wrote_ them, shithead. That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“I-” Spot swallowed hard. He was normally more eloquent than this, but this was _really_ not going as planned. “I _just_ found them Race and _Christ_ this isn't working. I just found those letters, Race. I didn’t know you’d written them until now and I was wondering… I was wondering how much of what you said then… still applies?”

For one long, terrifying second, Race just stared at him, mouth slightly open, looking at a loss for words. Then he closed his mouth and leaned on the doorframe, eyes still on Spot.

“You’re an idiot,” he said quietly. “You’re a real _goddamn idiot,_ Conlon.”

“Yes?” Spot replied, thinking maybe it was safest to agree, because Race looked (and sounded) _pissed._

“You _just_ found them?” Race asked. “It’s been _two years._ ”

“Yes.”

“And you just found them.”

“Correct.”

Race made some sort of noise like a hysterical laugh. “It’s been two years,” he said again, more to himself than to Spot, and he closed his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

“Race,” whispered Spot, and Race’s eyes snapped open.

“What did you say?”

“Your name,” Spot said, suddenly uneasy. “Race.”

“No one’s…” Race trailed off, then shook his head. “No one’s called me that in years, Conlon. Two years.”

“Oh.” It was common knowledge that Race had fallen out of contact with all of his friends after he and Spot had broken up, distancing himself from their whole friend group and as a result, Spot.

It had worked, too- no one had heard anything from him all this time. But it wasn’t surprising that he would have dropped the old nickname. “Race” was full of memories… about their friends, about the time spent with them, about his life up until the breakup. About Spot.

“Yeah,” Race said, frowning slightly.

They stood there, in silence, for a long time. Spot was beginning to think that they were just going to stand there forever when Race finally spoke.

“I mean… I guess you could come in,” he murmured, turning his head to look inside his apartment. _Checking to see how presentable it was._ It was a habit of his, all the way back from their first year of college, and Spot had to suppress a smile because some things really did not change.

“Race,” he said suddenly, and Race turned back around. “I don’t want to come in.”

“You don’t want to… Okay.” Race sounded doubtful. “Did you just pop in to say hi, then? Hey, found your letters. Thought I’d stop by and see how you were doing after I broke your heart two years ago. Doing alright? Good. Bye.”

On _bye_ his voice cracked, and Spot’s brain short-circuited.

This was someone who rarely ever let his emotions show. He didn’t cry. Ever. He was a stone-cold badass. He didn’t cry. _He didn’t cry._

So those were _definitely_ not tears in his eyes. Of course not.

And he looked so _helpless,_ standing in the doorway of this apartment he’d been living in for the past two years, separated from his ex and his friends, no doubt trying to guard himself against his emotions like always.

 _Spot_ wanted to cry now.

“Race,” he whispered again.

“ _What._ ” Race was furiously blinking at the ground, as though angry at the tears, feeling betrayed by his own weakness. Spot could definitely relate.

“I’m sorry,” Spot said quietly.

“Damn right you’d _better be_ ,” but he didn’t sound mad. Just… hollow.

“Race,” Spot said yet again, just because it had been _so long_ since he’d said it aloud, and he wanted to savor this, however short it may be.

Time for the million dollar question. The reason he was here at all. “ _Race._ Do you still… Do you still like me?”

“No, you ass. I hate your freaking existence. Go die.”

But Spot had heard the slight undertone to his voice and knew he wasn’t serious. Race must have known it too, because his tone became defensive and hurried.

“We shouldn’t- I don’t want to talk about this here- you can come in, you know,” he snapped.

“I don’t want to come in,” Spot repeated.

“Well that’s _fine and dandy._ Just stay out here, why don’t you,” Race hissed, the tears filling his eyes faster now. “You going to screw this up for me again? I was living quite a nice life before _you_ came stomping back into it, you know!”

“No you weren’t,” Spot said matter-of-factly. “If it was anything like the hell I’ve been living, it hasn’t been nice at all.”

“Who said it’s been anything like yours?” Race challenged.

“ _This_ ,” said Spot, and he thrust one hand into his pocket, pulling out the address and Race’s last letter. Both were crumpled, and while he messily folded the address and put it back, he kept the letter in his hand, smoothing it out as best he could on his leg.

“Look at this,” Spot said, handing it over. “Read it. You as good as say on here that life without me _sucks._ That leaving me is the last thing you would ever want to do.”

“I wrote that a long time ago, Spot.” Race’s voice shook ever so slightly as he looked at the letter in Spot’s outstretched hand, not accepting it, not even making an attempt to read it, just looking at it like it was a snake- like it was dangerous, and like Race was getting ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

“Yes,” Spot said impatiently. “But what you said… It applied to me, too.” He took a deep breath. “ _Still applies_ to me, too.”

Race’s body went still against the doorframe, his eyes widening. Now he really _did_ look in danger of fleeing.

And suddenly Spot was even more worried. _Shit._ Perhaps he’d come on too fast. Maybe Race wasn’t ready for the full-on confession yet. Maybe Race was still working through it. _Maybe Race had a boyfriend._

All of these things that hadn't seemed important on his adrenaline-fueled run over here now seemed to smack him in the face. _What were you thinking, dumbass?_

In retrospect, coming all the way across the city to find his ex of two years just because he’d found a letter written by said ex _when they still loved each other_ was maybe not the best of ideas.

Then again, Spot had never truly stopped loving Race, now had he?

“Race, I’m sorry-” he began, but he stopped abruptly when Race spoke, quickly and almost at a whisper, seemingly to the floor, since that’s where his eyes were directed.

“Listen to me _are you listening to me?_ ” he hissed. “If you are bullshitting me right now I will beat the goddamn crap out of you. I will put you into next freaking _week_ if you’re shitting me.”

He looked up, and his dark eyes met Spot’s, angry and hard, but beyond that… scared. Terrified. _Petrified_ that Spot was joking.

So Spot, in a display of compassion rarely shown before, told him the truth.

“Race,” he said, holding his gaze. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

Race let out a huff that very well could have been a nervous laugh. “Oh, good. You had me worried there for a second.”

And, still not breaking eye contact with Spot, he grabbed the front of Spot’s jacket and tugged him forward into a messy kiss.

_What._

Rational thought had left Spot; all he could think was _oh my God oh my God oh my God_ because _Race was kissing him._ He let his eyes slip closed as he kissed back with all his might, consequences be freaking _damned._

Because less than a minute ago, Spot had sincerely thought that he would never again get to kiss Race again, never again get to feel their lips pressed together, never again get to hear Race make those amazing noises and know that _he_ was the one who’d caused them.

And yet…

Here he was.

Here _Race_ was.

_Kissing him._

_What._

When they finally pulled apart, Spot kept his eyes closed for a second, unwilling to return to reality because _damn._ He’d forgotten how amazing of a kisser his boyfriend –ex-boyfriend, whatever- really was.

“What the _hell,_ ” he breathed, opening his eyes and taking in Race’s face, which had something akin to terror on it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice husky. He cast his gaze back at the ground. “I had to.”

“What the _hell,_ ” Spot repeated. He racked his brains, trying to get past the   _oh my God oh my God oh my God_ looping on repeat through his mind. The only thought that he could decipher was, _Why on earth did we break up?_

Because the kiss had reminded him just how much he loved this. How much he loved _Race._

With a start, he realized Race was backing away, the same panicked expression on his face, and Spot instinctively grabbed his arms, keeping him in place. Race froze, and Spot hoped that he wasn’t irreversibly screwing this up because _goddammit_ he wanted this so much.

“Why the _freaking hell_ did we break up?” Spot demanded, and Race opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

 “Because you’re a piece of shit,” he finally said, and while the words were true, his voice had no anger in it.

 “Well, at least we agree on one thing,” Spot said with a breathy laugh. “So…”

“So,” said Race.

“So,” Spot said again. He closed his eyes tight, summoning his courage, and opened them again. “How opposed would you be to starting over?”

“Starting over?” Race said thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, no.”

Just as Spot’s heart began to plummet, he finished his statement. “But _trying again_ , that I could get behind.”

“Trying again,” Spot repeated, testing the words out on his tongue and nodding. “I like it.”

“Of course you do, I’m the one that came up with it,” Race said with a cocky smile, and _oh_ they were back on joking terms again. This was good. This was very good.

“So what now?” Spot asked.

“What now,” Race mused. “Well… I mean, we could talk it out, long and boring…”

“I’m sensing an ‘or’ somewhere in here,” Spot said, using his thumbs to trace circles on Race’s upper arms.

“ _Or,_ we could do _this_ some more,” Race said, gesturing to their position. “Figure this shit out later, _after_ I’ve kissed that look off your pretty face.”

“Look? What look?” Spot said indignantly, and Race just laughed.

Spot _really_ loved Race’s laugh.

“Come here, you idiot,” Race murmured, and brought his arms up to loop around Spot’s neck, pulling him close and pressing their mouths together once more. Spot’s hands slipped from Race’s arms to his hips, where his fingers trailed ever-so-lightly along the skin underneath Race’s old t-shirt. Race made the most _amazing_ sound, part gasp, part whimper, and _shit_ Spot remembered that sound. It was one of the hundreds of things he loved about Race, one of the hundreds of things he had promised himself he would never forget about him.

He vowed, right then and there, to do whatever the hell it took to make Race make that sound over and over again.

When they pulled apart once more, Race just smiled up at him- a _real_ smile, not one of his trademark sneers, and Spot couldn’t help himself. He leaned in again, feeling the smile against his own lips, and he was _so_ far gone ( _head over effing heels)_ for Race that it wasn’t even funny.

“I like this idea more,” Spot said.

“I do too, but we’ve got to talk about this,” whispered Race, catching Spot’s eyes and holding his gaze. “It’s been two years. We can’t just pretend nothing happened.”

Spot sighed. “You’re right.” He reluctantly took one of his arms from Race’s waist and ran a hand through his own hair. “Um… We should get out of the hallway.”

Once comfortable on the couch, not quite touching but close enough that the feeling was there, Spot said something along the lines of, “Um, hi.”

Race snorted. “That’s it?”

“Shut up, ass. I’m trying,” Spot snapped, then tilted his head. “Uh…”

“Let me start,” said Race. “When you landed yourself in the hospital. What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Spot blinked, startled, because he hadn't expected _that._ “I… I don’t know,” he admitted.

“That’s not good enough. What drove you to do it?”

_What made you want to kill yourself?_

Spot swallowed. “I… I guess I just didn’t want to deal with life anymore. You were pissed at me, and my dad was pissed at me, and I was pissed at myself… and nothing was adding up. I didn’t see a good way out of the problem.”

Race shook his head in disbelief, but Spot appreciated that he didn’t tell Spot he was dumb, or that _killing himself_ wasn’t a healthy alternative to dealing with an issue, because Spot _already knew this._

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Race whispered. “ _Dammit_ Spot I thought you were going to die and I was going to lose the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“The best thing that’s-” Spot cut off, his voice breaking dangerously on _that’s._ “You mean _me_?”

“No, the other gorgeous idiot who stole my heart in the ninth grade and _still_ hasn’t had the basic decency to give it the hell back _yes I mean you,_ ” Race said, all in one breath.

“Me,” Spot parroted.

“You,” Race said with a nod.

Spot couldn’t help himself, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Race’s once more.

“Spot,” Race said, still halfway kissing him, so that it tickled Spot’s lips and came out muffled. “ _Sean._ ”

Spot pulled apart because _Sean_ was for Important Matters. _Sean_ was for We Need To Talk.

“Spot. Sean. If you ever get to that point again…” Race began. “Where you feel like… like _that_ again… you’ve got to swear to me that you’ll tell me.”

Spot pulled back in alarm, not ready to make that kind of promise –hell, it had been hard enough the first time- but Race caught hold of his wrists and kept him where he was.

“ _Swear it to me,”_ he hissed, but he wasn’t angry. “Swear it to me, Sean, because I swear I’ll never forgive myself if… if something happened to you.”

And his tone was so shaky, his face so full of begging, _pleading,_ that Spot found it somewhere inside himself to nod. “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll-I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask,” Race murmured, sliding his hands up to intertwine with Spot’s own.

“I’m sorry this isn't…” Spot gestured vaguely, to himself, to Race, to _life in general,_ who knew. “I’m sorry it’s not the perfect relationship you always wanted.”

“I don’t want perfect,” Race said softly. “Perfect is for fairytales and rom-coms. But _this-_ ” He laughed quietly. “This isn't perfect, not by a longshot. _We_ aren’t perfect by a longshot. But this is what I want. _You_ are what I want.”

“Sap.”

“Shut up, you love me.”

“I do,” Spot said, realizing as soon as the words passed his lips that it was true. Had been true for a very, _very_ long time. And hadn't stopped being true when Race had walked out. “I really do.”

Race studied him for a second, eyes questioning, before he seemed to settle on something and this time, it was him who kissed Spot, gentle but firm.

And no matter how many times they did this, Spot was left breathless. Got the feeling he would _forever_ be left breathless by this amazing person who he swore to himself he was _never_ letting go of again.

 “Are we alright?” he asked Race. Just to be sure. Because if this shit had taught him anything, it was that communication was _vitally_ important, and he didn’t want Race secretly pissed at him again.

Race considered it, tilting his head, his grip loosening ever so slightly on Spot’s hands. “We still…” he hesitated. “We still have some things to talk about. Definitely.”

“Definitely,” Spot echoed, because he knew this. He knew this and yet… they could talk later couldn’t they, when Spot’s pulse had returned to normal and he didn’t feel like he was floating on an effing cloud?

“We’ll talk in a little bit. Over lunch. How’s that?” Race asked, punctuating his question with a peck to Spot’s lips.

“As long as you cook lunch for me, I’m good with anything,” Spot replied.

“Oh my _God,_ ” sighed Race. “I swear you’re just in this relationship for my cooking.”

“You’ve caught me,” laughed Spot, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Although you could heat up leftovers and I’d be impressed.”

“That’s because you can’t cook for _shit,_ ” Race pointed out. “You once burnt _oatmeal._ ”

“We don’t talk about that, ass.”

Race snickered and kissed him again, longer this time. “I’ll make you pasta,” he said. “We’ll sort out our shit over pasta. How’s that sound?”

“Effing _amazing,_ ” Spot said, because seriously, Race’s cooking was a skill learned from his Italian mother and he was _fantastic._

“Excellent, I’ll get right to work,” said Race, and made to get up from the couch.

Spot whined and pulled him back down. “Five more minutes,” he protested.

“The longer I stay here, the longer you have to wait for your lunch,” Race said.

Spot thought about it. “Somehow, I can live with that,” he said, and relished in the sound Race made as he crushed their mouths back together.

~

Crutchie put down the rag he had been using to wipe the tables and sighed. Running a hand through his hair, he glanced up at the clock and noted with great pleasure that his shift was nearly up.

“Blink!” he called, and a grunt of acknowledgement could be heard from his coworker. 

“’S it time?” he murmured sleepily, lifting his head from where it had been resting on the counter.

Crutchie laughed. “It’s time, you lazy ass. C’mon.”

Together, they began the process of closing up the shop for the night. Blink stacked the chairs on the tables so that he could sweep underneath them, and Crutchie wiped down the countertops and coffee machines. When the shop was satisfactory and ready for the morning shifters tomorrow morning (bless their souls), they grabbed their coats and left. Blink locked the doors behind them, and the two of them stomped in the chilly air, trying to warm up.

“Mush coming to get you?” Crutchie asked as he pulled on his beanie.

Blink nodded. “And you?”

“Jack,” Crutchie said. As if summoned by his name, Jack’s truck could be heard making its way up the street.

He turned to Blink. “You alright here waiting for Mush?”

“I’m great. Go have fun with your bae,” Blink muttered through chattering teeth.

Crutchie grinned and shook his head, turning back towards the street and Jack’s fast-approaching pickup truck.

The thing was a piece of _junk,_ rusty and older than Crutchie, and it liked to be problematic when making sharp turns and going up steep hills. Several of their friends had begged Jack to get rid of the thing after a trip in the jerky, stalling truck, but Jack refused. Said it had “character” or some shit.

Crutchie, for one, loved it, even if it was a tad stubborn. It smelled like Jack, and the seats were soft.

Or maybe that was just Jack’s insistence that the truck was a wonderful treasure rubbing off on him.

At the curb, Jack stopped the truck and waved at Blink as Crutchie climbed in the passenger seat, tucking his crutch in the backseat. Jack greeted his boyfriend with a kiss and took the truck out of park, and after a few very alarming noises and quick a bit of rattling, the rustmobile started off down the street.

Crutchie took his phone out of his jacket pocket and turned it on. He didn’t usually turn it off during work, but the stress was getting to be too much, and he figured it would be better for him and everyone around him if the distraction was removed.

Texts began spilling in- from Jack, verifying the pickup time (as if he hadn't gotten Crutchie from work every single day since they’d started dating months ago), Katherine, reminding him about movie night this weekend, Davey, the exact same.

And then there was one from Mush.

**[Mushee] have u heard?!?**

_Heard what?_ And Mush wasn’t normally one for punctuation, much less two question marks and an exclamation mark.

His fingers hovered over his keyboard, ready to type out _heard about what,_ when the texts came in from Spot.

**[Spot] so i have a question for u**

**[Spot] completely & totally hypothetical **

**[Spot] if i said i did somethin rly rly stupid today**

**[Spot] but then it ended up ok**

**[Spot] what would u say?**

“That makes _no sense,_ ” Crutchie said out loud.

“What doesn’t?” Jack asked, eyes on the road.

“Spot just- I don’t even know.” Crutchie frowned at his phone. _What stupid thing had Spot done?_

He did a lot of stupid things. Not a lot of them turned out alright in the end. This was a rare occasion.

“Spot?” Jack grinned. “Wait for the next text.”

“The next…?” Crutchie asked, just as his phone dinged a final time.

The picture from **[Spot]** was blurred, clearly captured as the people in it were in motion, but it was of Spot and someone else, leaning in to kiss Spot on the cheek. The other person was only a blur in the photo, as if they had leaned in to kiss Spot before realizing he was taking a picture, then ducked back out, but Crutchie knew that dark hair. He knew that cocky smile, and he knew the only person Spot would be letting anywhere _near_ him.

“Holy shit,” Crutchie murmured, looking at the picture of Spot and Race on his phone. “Holy _shit._ ”

“Mhmm,” Jack hummed, stopping the truck at a red light and turning to Crutchie. “So now you know. I’m guessing Mush texted you, too?”

“They got _back together?_ ” Crutchie cried. “It’s been two years!”

“Isn't it great?” Jack asked.

“Are you kidding? It’s fantastic!” Crutchie laughed, looking down at his phone screen once more, at Spot’s face, which was lit up like the sun, something that hadn't happened since the breakup, at the laughter in Race’s eyes as he ducked out of the screen.

Spot was _happy._ Happier than he’d been in two years.

“It’s fantastic,” Crutchie said again. “Oh my God, I haven’t seen Race since…”

He trailed off, but they both knew what he meant. _Since Spot and Race had broken up._ Since the nastiest fight in their friend group’s history had taken place, and Race had moved out of Spot’s apartment and lost contact with all of them. For two years.

“You think they’re going to stay together this time?” Crutchie asked. Perhaps it was jinxing it to say something like that, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t sure his friend could handle another breakup with the love of his life.

“I think so,” Jack mused. He glanced at Crutchie. “I don’t think they would risk the heartbreak again. I think they’re sure this time, or at least sure enough to try it again.”

“That was… oddly poetic,” Crutchie said.

Jack swatted him without taking his eyes off the road. “I can be deep and poetic too, you know.”

“I know.” Crutchie caught Jack’s hand and interlocked their fingers. “Regardless of what happens, though… We need to be there this time. For both of them. No repeats of last time.”

“Definitely not,” Jack agreed. “I don’t care how much we love Spot, I’m not driving him to the emergency room at three am again because his anger management skills could use some work and he and Race can’t be trusted not to throw _glass_ at each other. So, yeah. No repeats.”

Crutchie laughed softly. “Sounds good to me. So which one of us gets to be the unlucky fellow who calls the new couple?”

“I’m driving,” Jack pointed out.

“Damn. Yes you are.” Crutchie pouted for a second, then dialed Spot’s number- a number placed on speed dial after a certain incident years ago that had never quite left anyone’s mind. Just in case Spot needed to be reached, _fast._

“ _Hello?”_ Someone snickered in the background on Spot’s end, and Spot swore loudly. “ _Go away, ass, no, it’s Crutchie, no don’t- dammit. Yes, I’ll put him on speaker_.”

There was a muffled _click,_ and Crutchie grinned in the knowledge that he was now speaking to both Spot and Race.

“Hey, asshole,” he said, addressing Spot, and Race laughed aloud at the insult. Crutchie continued, not caring if he came across as forward, or nosy. He was Spot’s friend and _dammit_ he deserved to know when Spot had gotten back together with the love of his life. He wanted to _be there_ for Spot, every step of the way. Not like last time.

And they couldn’t have a repeat of last time.

Never again.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, Conlon. Start talking.”

~

**Author's Note:**

> I CHANGED MY TUMBLR URL now under the off-chance that you're actually looking for my trash blog it'll just say "i have moved'
> 
> now i'm @seize-the-giant-furniture-wall
> 
> one word change
> 
> monumental
> 
> awesome
> 
> wow
> 
> -byrd


End file.
